Ghosts Don’t Ride Bikes, Do They?
CHAPTER ONE THRILLS AND SPILLS
Let’s talk about the thrills and spills of riding a bike. Is there anything more thrilling than racing down the street with the wind in your face? Even the spills are cool. Trying to do a trick and falling off your bike, or coming home with a brand-new hole
in your jeans—it’s the best! Thrills and spills. You can’t have one without the other. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
The thing is, nobody ever talks about the chills of riding a bike. At least not until I moved to Kersville. This town is made of chills!
My bike is the coolest thing in the world. It’s black with red rims. The handlebars have a compass on one side, a light in the middle, and a horn on the other side. Not a bell. A horn!
What I love about my bike is that it’s not shiny and new. This bike has been through a lot of spills. There are scratches on the paint and dents to prove it. The seat even has a piece of black electrical tape from when I crashed trying to ride backward—bad idea.
The thing is, even though my bike isn’t perfect, it’s all mine. It’s moved to every new house we’ve moved to, and it feels the same no matter where I live. It’s basically been my best friend.
I have a real friend now. His name is Desmond Cole. He never cared about bikes before. Why?
Well, do you see that bike over there—the one with the compass, the light, and the horn? The one with the scratch on the frame and
the electrical tape on the seat? The one that’s riding through the forest without anyone on it?
Yep, that’s my bike.
Why is the bike riding by itself?
Well, that’s a strange story.